him out of the most learned books, and Gargantua was supposed to write
down, in his own, every word that he heard. But by this time, I am sorry
to say, Gargantua was a little tired of study, and though he scribbled
busily enough, instead of writing Latin words, he drew pictures of
elephants and camels and lions and tigers. And old Master Holofernes, who
did not look over the work with the glass till long after, was none the
wiser. As for King Grangousier and his friends, Gargantua had one Latin
piece that he could recite either backwards or forwards for them, and
they all vowed that his learning was wonderful.
Everything was going happily enough when one day there came a guest to
Grangousier’s table who knew something about Latin. When he saw how much
Gargantua had learned in all his years of study, his eyes twinkled.
“How would it be,” said he to Grangousier, “if to-night I should bring
Eudemon, a young neighbor of mine, to talk Latin with Gargantua?”
Grangousier laid down his fork and vowed that it was the very best plan
he ever had heard.
So, that evening Eudemon came,—an ordinary-sized boy about twelve years
old. Pulling off his cap and bowing politely to all the company, he began
immediately in the best Latin to thank Grangousier for allowing him to
come to the palace, and then to tell Gargantua how glad he was to have
the chance of talking with him.
When Gargantua heard that torrent of Latin of which he could not
understand a single word, he grew so red that he had to hide his face in
his cap, and stood there as dumb as a cow. As for Master Holofernes, he
sneaked quietly out of the back door of the palace, and ran away as fast
and as far as his legs would carry him.
For the first time in his life Grangousier was angry.
“_What!_” he bellowed, glaring at Gargantua and trembling in all his
chins. “Not a word to say for yourself! Well then, well then, _well
then_, not a minute longer do you stay here! Off to Paris with you, and
get some sense put into your great, stupid head!”
The very next day Gargantua, with Eudemon and several other boys of
the neighborhood, set out for Paris in charge of a new tutor named
Ponocrates. Now, Ponocrates was not so very big, but somehow or other
Gargantua knew by looking at him that it would not be wise to be drawing
lions and tigers while _he_ was reading Latin.
And partly because Ponocrates was that kind of man, and partly because
Gargantua was thoroughly ashamed of himself, he went to his new master as
soon as they got to Paris. “How do you wish me to begin?” he asked quite
humbly.
Wise old Ponocrates looked at him kindly. “Suppose, at first,” he said,
“you do just as you used to at home.”
Nothing could have pleased Gargantua better. The next morning he began
as usual, by getting up about nine o’clock. He never bothered much about
dressing, for his one idea was to get to breakfast as soon as possible.
So, he scrambled into a shabby old suit lined with fox skins which was
easy to put on, and smoothed his hair with a “German comb,”—which meant,
that he ran his fingers through his great, tousled locks. Then yawning
and stretching his arms, he jumped down over a whole staircase in his
eagerness to get to breakfast.
Once there, he made short work of seven or eight hams, a dozen rashers
of bacon, a huge bowl of chopped meat, and an acre of bread and gravy.
After that he was ready for a walk through Paris to get up an appetite
for dinner. Coming home a little early, he sat down for half an hour to
study, to satisfy his conscience. But, while his eyes were on his book,
his mind was down in the kitchen, peeping into the great steaming pots.
Even at that, he was at the table playing tunes on the glasses with his
knife and fork long before dinner was served. When it did begin, four of
his servants took their places on the table in front of him. And while
Gargantua ate his usual number of steaks, hams, roasts, tongues, and
sausages, they shoveled mustard down his great throat.
When every platter was clean, Gargantua leaned back in his chair and
cried, “Spread the carpet!”
Down climbed the four servants from the table. Three of them unrolled
a huge rug, while the other brought in trays piled high with checkers,
chessmen, cards, and dice. Then the fun began. Gargantua and his friends
started in on the two hundred and fifteen games they liked best. That
afternoon they played:
Flaying the Fox,
Charming the Hare,
Trudge, Pig,
Pinch without Laughing,
Riding the Wild Mare,
The Whirligig,
Rogue and Ruffian,
I Take you Napping,
The Hobgoblin,
Climb the Ladder, Billy,
and
Gunshot Crack.
By that time Gargantua’s great head was nodding, and before the cards
were shuffled again, he was stretched out on the floor fast asleep. About
five o’clock he rubbed his great eyes open, and calling his friends,
dashed out, mounted his horse and rode away to see a rabbit-catching just
outside of Paris.
By supper-time, Gargantua had forgotten entirely about his Latin, his new
tutor, and the reason why he had been sent to Paris. His mind was on the
good supper and all the games they could play before midnight. His great
fork flew from plate to mouth, and back again from mouth to plate. And
between gulps he roared out his favorite song, while all his friends beat
time on the table with their knives:
“One, two, three, four!
Much to eat and maybe more:
Five, six, seven, eight!
Polish platter, polish plate:—”
Just an instant Gargantua paused for breath, when suddenly a new voice,
brisk and decisive, took up the refrain:
“Nine, ten!—Finish then!
Now for knowledge, gentlemen.”
Gargantua stopped, mouth agape, with a whole pudding poised on his fork.
That was a new ending to the song, and there just inside the opened
door, stood the singer,—Master Ponocrates!
But Ponocrates did not hesitate. He poured out a black liquid from a
bottle into a great spoon, and striding up the table to Gargantua, dashed
it into his open mouth.
For all the time Gargantua had been eating and playing, Ponocrates had
been looking on. And when he saw what Gargantua’s habits were, he knew
that it would take more than a new course of study to change them. So he
had gone to Doctor Theodore, a famous physician of Paris, and got from
him a medicine which should make Gargantua forget his old ways entirely.
So well did it work, that hardly had Gargantua swallowed it when he laid
down his fork and looked wonderingly at the table as if he were trying to
make out what all the puddings and pastries were there for.
“And now,” said Ponocrates, “you will oblige me, young gentlemen, by
starting off to bed. I want clear heads for to-morrow’s study.”
Gargantua was the first one up from the table; and before eight o’clock
had struck, he was asleep for the first time in his life without dreaming
of banquets.
Early next morning a new kind of life began for him. For Ponocrates had
laid out such a course of study that he should not lose a single hour
of the day. At four o’clock he was called; and while he was being rubbed
down after his bath, a page read the Latin lesson aloud to him. As he
dressed, Ponocrates would come in to explain the hard points; and after
a day or two Gargantua himself could repeat the lessons off by heart.
And all the time he would be carefully parting his hair with a real comb
instead of a German one, and never thinking of breakfast at all. Indeed
after a few more doses of the black medicine, Ponocrates had to remind
him that it was time to be eating or he would rush off to the schoolroom
as soon as he was dressed.
[Illustration: Even when he swam down the river Seine]
After breakfast Ponocrates talked for three hours in Latin, and then,
as the boys began to look a trifle sleepy, sent them out for a game of
tennis till dinner-time. After dinner they would sing for a while, and
then get at their Latin books again for three hours more. And after six
months of _that_, Eudemon himself could not outdo Gargantua in talking
Latin. He thought in it, dreamed in it, and was as anxious to be at his
book as he was before to be at his dinner.
Even when he swam, of an afternoon, down the river Seine, he took a book
in one hand, and holding it up dry out of the water, read aloud from it,
all the way, in a voice to split your ear-drums. Coming out of the water,
he laid the book on the bank and dried himself off by leaping over trees
and houses, and vaulting over churches, pricking his hand on the steeples.
But that was not the end of his day. For then came his lessons with
Squire Gymnast, who taught him to leap nimbly from one great galloping
horse to another; to shatter a thick stone tower with one thrust of his
huge lance; and to hold two lead weights each weighing eight hundred and
seventy thousand pounds above his head for three-quarters of an hour.
Last of all he would stand with his arms folded, in an open field, and
dare the whole French army to move him with crowbars.
But one day as the soldiers ranged themselves, ten to a bar, ready to
pry at Gargantua’s great boots, there came a pelting of hoofs across the
turf. Another moment, and a rider, shouting and spurring, burst in among
them to Gargantua’s very feet.
“Your Royal Highness,” he cried, “your father, King Grangousier, sends
for you!”
That was enough for Gargantua. The French crowbars rattled to the ground
like toothpicks, as he sprang leaping over the army to saddle his great
mare.
Part Two: How The Bakers Wished They Hadn’t
Now, the reason Grangousier sent for Gargantua so hastily was because he
had had the ill luck to get mixed up in a war. And all because he praised
a cake!
Next to Grangousier’s kingdom was the country of Lerné, famous far and
near for its delicious little cakes. Twice a week, for years and years,
the proud cake-bakers of Lerné had driven in along the king’s highway
with ten cartloads of cakes,—five for the palace, and five to sell in
town. From the hilltops beside the road Grangousier’s shepherds watched
for them to come, and rushed down to buy a few cakes to go with their
midday meal.
[Illustration]
Now, it happened one day that King Grangousier in his usual kindly mood
praised especially one of the little cakes from Lerné, which was made by
a man named Marquet. At that, Marquet, who was already the proudest of
the proud cake-bakers, marked all his cakes with a huge “M” and a little
crown above, to show that he was baker to the King. And the next time he
drove into Grangousier’s kingdom he held his nose higher than ever. Down
the hill as usual came the shepherds for their cakes, but Marquet drove
straight along.
[Illustration]
“Hey, hey, hey,” cried the shepherds good-naturedly, “where are our cakes
to-day?”
Marquet gave them one scornful glance. “I’m not selling to country
folk,” said he. “_My_ cakes are for the King.”
[Illustration]
“Come, come, Marquet,” said one of the shepherds named Forgier, taking
the horse’s bridle. “We’ve bought your cakes too many years to be treated
this way. Here’s your money; now give us our cakes.”
Marquet rose up insolently. “_Take_ your cakes!” he cried. “_Take_ your
cakes!” And with that he gave Forgier two great lashes across the face.
Out came Forgier’s stout oak cudgel. One blow, and Marquet reeled back
senseless.
By that time the other bakers had driven up, and seeing Marquet fall,
they set on the shepherds with their whips.
“Bumpkins! Boobies!” they shouted. “We’ll teach you to strike a
cake-baker!”
But the shepherds replied so sturdily with their crooks and cudgels that
it was not long before the bakers were glad to jump into their carts
again, and drive as fast as they could back toward Lerné.
[Illustration]
“Stop, stop, stop,” cried the hungry shepherds, “we want our cakes.” And
giving chase, they seized four or five dozen of the cakes, throwing their
money into the carts, in payment.
Then they bound up Forgier’s bleeding face; and made merry over their
meal, laughing at the proud cake-bakers who had lost a day’s trade by
their insolence.
As for the bakers, they drove furiously, straight to the palace of their
king, Picrochole, and dashed, disheveled and breathless, into the throne
room.
“Your Majesty,” they cried, “we have been set upon by the shepherds of
old King Grangousier,—our heads broken, our coats torn, our cakes stolen,
our trade ruined, and Marquet nearly killed.” And with that, two of them
brought in Marquet himself, groaning horribly.
Now, Picrochole was as proud and passionate as any cake-baker of them all.
“What!” he roared, turning purple in the face. “Killing our subjects!
Spoiling our trade! Well, we’ll teach them to eat our cakes indeed!
Marshals, sound the call to arms. Get out the cannon, double cannon,
serpentines. Every vassal, rich and poor, noble and peasant, to arms! And
all in the square by the hour of noon. For to-day we teach Grangousier’s
scoundrels to eat our cakes!”
[Illustration]
Then there was a bustle indeed. By noon the great square was swarming
with soldiers,—glittering officers, solid infantry, dashing cavalry,
bold cannoneers, all gathered under the royal standard. Around the edges
were the common people, without uniforms, but armed with pikes and
broadswords and eager to be at the fighting. In the center of things
was Marquet, fully recovered, and the cake-bakers around him, all very
important-looking and armed up to their eyes. The cannon shone in the
sun; the royal standard waved; the officers dashed to and fro; and all
the people cheered.
Finally King Picrochole called his captains about him. “The army is to
march in two divisions,” he said. “Half go east with me to Rock Clermond;
half go west under Earl Swashbuckler to the Ford of Vede.”
Then detailing the captains, he commanded the army to advance
immediately. So, all in disorder, the soldiers poured out of the square
in two great streams, half by the east gate under Picrochole, half by the
west gate under Earl Swashbuckler.
But no matter which way they went, as soon as they got to Grangousier’s
country, they took to the fields, trampling crops, tearing hedges,
shaking fruit trees, picking grapes, beating down nuts. Before them, in
an uproar of fright, they drove cows, oxen, sheep, lambs, goats, pigs,
hens, chickens and geese. Grangousier’s poor shepherds and farmers,
hearing the bleats and the bellowings mingled with the songs and shouts
of the soldiers, took to the woods; but many were captured nevertheless.
“Alas!” they cried, “we have always been good neighbors to you. We are
unarmed and at peace, and you come on us like this! Spare us! Spare us!”
“Humph!” said Picrochole’s men grimly. “You are learning to eat our
cakes.”
So that night, just as he had planned, Picrochole surprised and took the
town of Rock Clermond, and Earl Swashbuckler quartered his army in the
castle at the Ford of Vede.
Meanwhile the shepherd Forgier was posting with all speed to tell
Grangousier. He arrived at a pause in the banquet, when the chestnuts
were roasting over the fire. And Grangousier, with his chair turned
about, was drawing pictures with a burnt stick in the ashes of the hearth
and telling stories of the old times.
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried all the guests, smacking their lips over the hot
chestnuts.
As for Queen Gargamelle on the other side of the fireplace, she smiled
across at Grangousier, and thought that however good the old times might
have been, they did not compare with the cozy present, with a warm blaze
and the chestnuts roasting on the hearth.
Just then Forgier came, breathless, pulling off his cap. “Your Majesty,”
he cried, “King Picrochole’s men swarm through the country. They trample
the crops. They take our cattle and our sheep. Earl Swashbuckler plunders
the Ford of Vede, and King Picrochole himself holds Rock Clermond.”
“What! What!” gasped Grangousier, turning from his story, all a-tremble.
“Picrochole, you say!—Our old neighbor, with whom we have lived so many
years in kindness and peace! What is it starts him against us? Is he mad,
to turn so on his old friend, Grangousier?”
Forgier told the story of the cakes; and as he spoke, the good giant’s
face which had been so troubled, became as bland and beaming as before.
“If it is only a matter of a few cakes,” he cried joyously, “we shall
soon satisfy them. For Grangousier’s cooks can make cakes too. And this
week the bakers of Lerné need not send cakes to the King; but the King
himself will send cakes to the bakers of Lerné. And Marquet shall have a
special cartload, all marked with my crown and scepter, to make up for
those he lost. Hey, hey, hey, cooks and bakers! Grangousier calls.”
So all the cooks and bakers of the palace scurried up from the kitchen,
spoons in hand and caps askew, and stood bowing before Grangousier’s
chair.
“Good cooks,” said Grangousier kindly, “can we make here in our kitchen
as fine cakes as those of Lerné?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” roared the cooks, bowing as low as they could.
“Well, then,” cried Grangousier, “take all the butter, all the sugar,
all the spice in the palace. Spare nothing; but bake me cakes hot and
fresh and fragrant enough to make friends again of the proud cake-bakers
of Lerné. Five cartloads I would send them by dawn to-morrow, to comfort
them for the five dozen the shepherds took.”
The cooks and bakers scuttled out again to be at their mixing and their
stirring. And Grangousier rubbed his great hands in glee.
“Nothing like good cakes to end a war!” he chuckled.
But Forgier stood there, waiting and unhappy. “Your Majesty,” he burst
out, “you do not know this Picrochole and his bakers. Once get them
aroused, and there will have to be fighting before it is done. Picrochole
will not give up Rock Clermond for all the cakes in the kingdom.”
Grangousier’s great face, which had been as jolly and round as a dinner
plate, grew as solemn and long as a platter. “Can it be?” he asked sadly.
“Can it be?” and sank into patient gloom.
Queen Gargamelle rustled anxiously in her chair. “Why not send for
Gargantua?” she suggested timidly.
Grangousier beamed again. “The very thing!” he cried. “With all the
reading and the fighting he’s been taught in Paris he’ll know in a minute
what’s best to be done. Forgier, mount the fastest little horse in our
stables. Post to Paris, and say to Gargantua that his old father needs
him.”
Forgier dashed out of the banquet hall; and Grangousier, turning his
chair again, sat all night, marking with his stick among the ashes and
quite forgetting about his chestnuts.
At the very first gleam of dawn he raised his head, and his great
nostrils puffed out like balloons. Up from the kitchen came wave on wave
of warm, delicious baking. “The clever rascals!” muttered Grangousier.
“The cakes are done!”
The oldest and trustiest cook of all rushed respectfully in. “Your
Majesty,” he said, “the cakes are being piled on the carts. Who shall go
with them to Rock Clermond?”
“You, Ulrich Gallet!” cried Grangousier happily. “Drive, yourself, the
cart of cakes for Marquet; and say to him that he shall have not only the
cakes, but these seven hundred thousand gold crowns besides, and one of
our best apple orchards for him and his family forever.
“Say to Picrochole that we are full of grief at this trouble between his
subjects and ours; give him the cakes, and tell him that we will make any
other return he wishes. Only ask him to leave our town in peace. And to
show him that you come as a friend, deck your carts with willow boughs.”
Trusty Ulrich bowed, and after he had gone, Grangousier himself lumbered
out to the terrace to watch the carts with their nodding branches creep
slowly over the hill.
The captain of Picrochole’s guard on the ramparts of Rock Clermond
snuffed the morning air. “A good breakfast somewhere!” he muttered, and
paced greedily around the wall, sniffing down the chimneys. But the
savory odor did not come from any house of them all.
The captain turned, and gazed about the desolate country beyond the
town. Suddenly his astonished eye caught four or five carts waving with
willows, drawing up to the great gate.
“Ho, there!” he cried sharply. “Who comes to Rock Clermond?”
Honest Ulrich started. “It is I,—Ulrich Gallet,—” he shouted, “on an
errand of peace from King Grangousier to King Picrochole and to Marquet.”
Just then the captain spied the cakes. It was those, then, that made the
air so appetizing. He gave a long, loud whistle, and sprang down the
embankment into the town. In another instant he burst out the gate, with
the soldiers of the guard at his heels. Without a word they clambered
over the carts and began seizing the cakes.
“Hold! Hold!” cried Ulrich stoutly, raising his whip. “The cakes are
meant for you at any rate. Only let me give them with my message to King
Picrochole and Marquet. Wait! Wait!”
The captain laughed insolently. “We will give your message,—never fear,”
he shouted; and with a sudden grasp pulled the bag of gold-pieces for
Marquet from Ulrich’s clenched hand.
“We ourselves,” he taunted, “will drive the carts to King Picrochole.”
And with that two of the soldiers, climbing up treacherously from behind,
threw Ulrich down into the dust. The next moment the poor cook heard the
carts rumbling off through the gate. He scrambled up and shouted as loud
as he could, but for reply there were only the sneering jibes of the
captain and his men, as they closed the gates behind them.
So Ulrich turned sadly, and limped back down the road to the palace. It
was twilight when he got there, but Grangousier was still watching from
the terrace. Ulrich snatched off his cap with its dusty willow twig, and
told his story. As he went on, all the jolly curves and dimples in the
good giant’s face changed to stern, straight lines.
“The curs!” he cried. “Perhaps they will understand our cannon better
than our cakes.” And he peered anxiously down the road toward Paris. “If
only Gargantua would come!” he sighed.
Meanwhile Gargantua had left Paris, listening to Forgier’s story on the
road. “My good old father!” he cried hotly. “To think that they should
dare abuse his peaceful country! Well, Forgier, we pass the Ford of Vede,
and we may as well look in on Earl Swashbuckler on our way.”
[Illustration: The young giant spurred ahead]
And with that the young giant spurred ahead so furiously that the ground
for miles around rocked with the hoof beats of his great mare. Straight
ahead over hill and dale lay the castle at the Ford of Vede. Gargantua
cleared the distance like a cyclone till he could see the castle towers.
Then reining in his steed, he measured their height and breadth with
his practised eye. Turning to the roadside, he pulled up a pine tree
as sturdy and as straight as a bar of iron, and held it upright like a
lance.
“Hail, cake-bakers of Lerné!” he cried grimly, and rode on to the castle.
But there was not a man to be seen. For at the jar of Gargantua’s coming,
every plunderer of them all had hidden himself safely inside.
“Ho, there, bakers!” called Gargantua. “Come out, as you value your
miserable lives.”
There was no reply, only a furious burst of cannon balls from the towers.
Up into Gargantua’s eyes they flew,—over his head and shoulders in a
vicious shower. But they struck the giant as harmlessly as so many grape
seeds.
“Stop your pesky shot-guns!” cried Gargantua, annoyed. “Listen to me.”
But the cannon balls came faster and thicker than ever. Gargantua brushed
them from his eyes, raised his great tree in a fury, and rode full tilt
against the castle.
There was a shock and a crash. The towers shuddered and splashed, stone
after stone, into the water beyond. As for Earl Swashbuckler and his
bakers, there was not one of them left for Gargantua’s great eyes to spy
out.
The young giant turned with a sorry shrug of his shoulders, and rode
toward his father’s palace. It was nearly midnight when he got there,
but Grangousier was still on the terrace, watching through the shadows
for his big son to come looming up against the moon.
“My boy!” cried Grangousier gladly, and went lumbering down to meet him.
“Father!” shouted Gargantua. But when he heard how Ulrich Gallet had
fared, his big eyes blazed. “They shall soon learn,” he cried, “how to
treat your servants, sire. Call out the army. Send them post haste along
the road to Rock Clermond, and leave the rest to me!” And Gargantua
sprang again to his horse’s back.
“Not so fast! Not so fast, my son!” said Grangousier. “Get your sword.
Get your lance. Refresh yourself with supper. Even then you will soon
overtake the army.”